Reboot
by gwenweybourne
Summary: Sequel to "Intolerable. Ludicrous. Incredible." Sherlock's sexual awakening gives John more than he bargains for. Cuddles, fluff, traumatizing Mrs. Hudson and Sally Donovan. Pre-Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Characters do not belong to me. Never happened. Slashy slash slash. I just thought some smutty fluff would help soothe those Reichenbach blues.**

Now John understood why they called it carnal _knowledge_. Once having had a taste for something, Sherlock couldn't settle for knowing just a little about it. He had to know _everything_. John had meant to just open a door and instead the entire bloody wall came down as every suppressed and frustrated sexual notion Sherlock Holmes had ever had since puberty came stampeding forth, demanding attention.

_I've created a monster_, he thought to himself for the hundredth time. But at the same time, he could hardly regret that one of the most beautiful, intelligent, and intriguing men he'd ever known thought that the sun rose and set in John's trousers. But good lord, the man was downright … _frisky_. John reckoned that the reasoning behind it was a muddle of things: pent-up sexual desire, Sherlock's obsessive need to conduct experiments, sheer curiosity, and well, perhaps genuine affection for the doctor.

They'd taken it fairly slowly at first, to give Sherlock time to get more used to the mind-altering experience of sexual arousal and for John to get used to the idea of being Sherlock's lover. The words "Sherlock" and "lover" didn't even seem to go together, but there it was.

And John had to admit he was enjoying his role as the more experienced lover guiding the way. The only time he'd been with a virgin was when he was a virgin himself as a teenager. He and his girlfriend at the time had deflowered each other in a fumblingly awkward but sweet encounter.

Sherlock was so beyond John in practically every way that it felt rather amazing to be on the other side for once. And to be the one to see Sherlock experiencing all of it for the first time. He was learning so much more about his friend/flatmate/lover. In spite of the seemingly ascetic lifestyle he led, Sherlock Holmes really was quite a hedonist. Having been forced to give up smoking and cocaine — two of his most beloved vices — he had taken up the practice of being sexual with typical Sherlockian intensity. He was frank and honest about it and asked John incessant questions, many of which John wasn't even able to answer without the help of Google (and naturally, Sherlock would whip out his phone and beat him to the punch). John's own sexual history was fairly bland. He'd had a handful of sexual relationships and a few one-nighters (usually when drunk and the sex had never been memorable) and everything had been fairly standard. "Vanilla" was apparently the term, according to Sherlock.

Not surprisingly, Sherlock was a curious and fearless lover. It was his request that they expand into anal play and John was more than happy to comply. That had been an unforgettable night, starting with them kissing and touching and when Sherlock was hard and his breath was coming in short, urgent gasps, John began to stroke his hole with a well-lubricated finger, causing Sherlock to shudder, intrigued and unused to the sensation.

"Relax, love," John murmured, kissing Sherlock tenderly before breaching him with his finger. Sherlock had shuddered again, groaning very softly, and then almost fell off the bed when John crooked his finger and brushed over his prostate.

"Dear God, what was that?" he'd exclaimed.

John chuckled. "You know exactly what that was."

"Yes," Sherlock had murmured faintly. "But I had no idea. Do it again, John."

And John had done it again. And again. By the end, he had shifted down and was enthusiastically sucking Sherlock's cock while fucking him with two fingers. If Sherlock moved back, he drove John's fingers in deeper; if he moved forward, he sank deeper into John's mouth. He was well caught and John used his fingers and tongue to bring Sherlock to the edge, then pull him back, then push him forward again. He did it again and again until Sherlock finally crumbled and begged him for release. After begging, he became incoherent, and that's when John pushed him all the way over and Sherlock literally sobbed with relief as he came, his entire body shaking as John swallowed him down.

John had slid back up to lay next to Sherlock, reaching out to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. He'd never made someone cry from pleasure before. Sex with Sherlock made him feel powerful and virile in a way he'd never experienced before. It was intoxicating.

"Fuck me."

John had cocked his head, confused. "Excuse me?"

"I want you to fuck me now, John." Sherlock's fingers wrapped around him and John groaned softly. "You're hard and I want you to fuck me."

"But Sherlock, you just came and I want you to —"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, his voice calm and serene, a little muffled by the pillow, "it's the perfect time. I'm relaxed and stretched and it won't hurt nearly as much if you do it now. I want to feel what it's like. I want you to come inside me. Please, John. Fuck me."

So John had slipped a pillow under Sherlock's hips and knelt behind him, admiring the long length of Sherlock's back and those beautiful shoulder blades that were incredibly erotic to him for some reason. He slipped on a condom (Sherlock would later request he be tested and when John received the all-clear they did away with condoms altogether), lubed up, and petted Sherlock's lower back gently, then stroked his palm reverently over Sherlock's pert little backside. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, John. Do it now."

John had gently spread Sherlock open, lined himself up and slowly pushed inside, gasping at the sensation. It wasn't difficult because John had worked the muscle so thoroughly earlier, but still Sherlock was tight, so tight, and he fit John like a glove.

"Jesus," he'd gasped. "Oh god, Sherlock."

Sherlock had groaned softly as John had entered, letting out a shaky breath, but he was still able to take the piss. "Invoking the deities already, John? A good sign, I daresay."

"Shut up," John half-groaned, half-chuckled. "If I'd had any idea earlier what a hot little arse you had on you, we would have been at this much sooner."

"Really, John, I had hoped that at least a fraction of my deductive skills might have rubbed off on you by now," murmured Sherlock, groaning softly as John seated himself fully inside. "But clearly not. Now fuck that 'hot little arse,' if you please."

And he had. He'd kept his thrusts slow and deep, letting Sherlock feel every inch of him. Leaning over to kiss and nibble at Sherlock's neck and shoulders. Cradling the other man's slender hips in his hands and watching his cock sliding in and out of him.

Sherlock was too soon off his mind-bending climax to get it up again, but he had sighed and moaned in pleasure, learning to rock his hips in time with John's thrusts, and then to squeeze John with his muscles, working him from the inside. Driving John out of his mind until he shuddered and came, thrusting hard and fast into Sherlock, then collapsing over his lover's back, his chest heaving.

"Drat. I had hoped I could make you beg for mercy," Sherlock's voice was gentle and amused and a little breathless.

"Like you did earlier? I thought you said you never begged for mercy," John gasped.

"Only _once_."

"You lost the capability for speech after that. I think that counts for at least two instances of begging." He was referencing Irene Adler's irritatingly bold assertion and he knew Sherlock would pick up on it.

"It certainly does not."

"Is that a challenge, Sherlock?"

"Glad to see that you are not too terribly dull-witted after orgasm, John."


	2. Chapter 2

There was, of course, there was the question of their friendship. In some ways nothing had changed. It was business as usual most of the time except when Sherlock decided he wanted to go to bed, he went to John's bed. Sometimes they had sex, sometimes they just lay close together. Though almost every time John fell asleep with Sherlock murmuring something or other in his ear. Often he was still talking when John woke up, though usually he was out of bed and tinkering with an experiment in the kitchen. Sherlock rarely slept for more than a few hours at a time, and that was usually when he was running on empty after throwing himself into a case.

There was more touching. Of the non-sexual kind. Which was to be expected, John thought, considering they had put their hands and mouths all over each other's bodies. It felt natural now to brush a hand over Sherlock's shoulder as he huddled over his microscope (but never when he was fussing with chemicals_. John, I would advise you not to touch me again while I am working on this or all of Baker Street will be forcibly relocated to Liverpool. In flaming pieces_.) Sherlock had taken to resting his head in John's lap when they watched telly. One time he paused behind John in the kitchen and then kissed the back of his neck before moving along, ensconced in the morning paper.

Sherlock hacked into John's online dating profiles and shut them down. John didn't even think to scold him about it.

"They were stupid," Sherlock huffed in bed about a week later.

"I know they're stupid, but it was a way to meet people."

"Meeting people. Why is everyone so obsessed with _meeting_ people? 'Oh, I should go to that party, I might _meet_ someone! Why can't I _meet_ anyone?'" Sherlock's voice rose half an octave, as it tended to when he was disgusted by something trivial.

John chuckled. "All right, all right, you made your point."

Sherlock looked at him slyly. "You didn't write down that you snore. And that you hum when you're reading something that interests you deeply."

"You're not supposed to put that stuff down. Especially not the snoring. Wait … I hum?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "Why not?"

"You're supposed to put all your best bits forward and then they can decide if they want to put up with you long enough to learn about the other stuff."

"Those are the best bits."

John pulled a face. "Out of _all_ my characteristics, you decide that my snoring and my apparent humming rate as top-notch?"

Sherlock shrugged and rested his head on John's shoulder, closing his eyes. "I like your humming," he murmured sleepily.

John chuckled in spite of himself. "What about the snoring?"

"It's got a pleasant cadence."


	3. Chapter 3

So, John didn't know how to define what he and Sherlock had become, exactly. Sherlock didn't seem concerned with giving it a name. _Partner_ was probably the closest thing, considering he lived with the man, worked with him, shared (and risked) his life with him, and now his bed. He realized he was coming to need Sherlock like he'd never needed anyone before that that was rather terrifying. Falling in love with an easily bored sociopath? It seemed downright masochistic. John knew he was important to Sherlock, too, even if the man had unconventional ways of showing it. Sherlock was useless with words when it came to expressing any kind of emotion, but the realm of touch was becoming a better medium for him. Sometimes he'd touch John so gently, the lightest brushing of fingertips over his cheek or throat or the scar on his shoulder. Sherlock's eyes would be unfocused and he'd become almost entranced, just touching John, to the point where John often had to capture the questing hand and gently tug on it, as if he were tethering Sherlock to the earth itself.

Sexually, there was nothing that seemed to daunt Sherlock, to the point where John found himself worrying that maybe Sherlock would outgrow him and want to expand his experiences beyond what John had to offer. After all, the man's experience was solely limited to being with John. Surely he'd eventually want to branch out. John had never had a lover like Sherlock before — someone who seemed to have no limits in terms of sexual curiosity. John suspected that even the most farfetched scenario he could concoct would be met with agreement from the detective. Sherlock would probably write a report about it afterward. John wondered if he was up to the job — he really wasn't that incredibly interesting. But the thought of Sherlock tiring of him was a great source of anxiety. Strange, considering his reluctance to enter into a sexual relationship with his best friend. Now he couldn't imagine living without Sherlock in his bed. Sherlock moaning his name and giving his beautifully responsive body to John again and again. Because it wasn't just sex — it had become part of the tapestry of their entire relationship.

He'd tried to hide this nagging concern, but naturally it was impossible to truly hide anything from Sherlock. Especially not when John had a bad habit of being incredibly obvious even for normal people.

They were in bed — always John's bed, since Sherlock couldn't be bothered to change his sheets or clear the clutter off the blanket — and Sherlock was telling John about a sex act he'd read about and wondering if they were flexible to pull it off or perhaps some yoga lessons were in order.

"Yes, well, perhaps your next lover will be a bit more bendy." John flinched. He hadn't meant to say that aloud, but it was too late now.

Sherlock's head whipped sharply to the side so he could stare at John in utter bafflement. "_Next_ lover? Why would I have a 'next' lover, John? Why would you say that? Why, explain to me, why. _Why?_ Are you going somewhere? Why are you leaving? How dare you leave!" The words spilled from Sherlock in a steady stream of indignation.

"I'm not leaving, Sherlock."

"Then why would you say such a ridiculous thing? 'Next' lover. Rubbish. I'm very happy with the one I have, thank you very much."

John sighed softly. "You'll get bored of me. I know you will."

Sherlock looked at John like he'd just sprouted horns and turned green. "You're not clever enough to 'know' that, John. I thought we'd established that fact a long time ago."

"Oh, right, yes. Then I _predict_, Sherlock. I predict that you will get bored of me and want to experience something new. Someone new. Someone younger and … bendier."

"Why, John? Is there something you're planning on denying me?"

"Deny you? No, of course not."

"So you agree that there's nothing you won't give me, should I desire it? Sexually, I mean. If so, you should tell me now and let me decide if it's a problem or not."

John opened his mouth to say something along the lines of "As much as I am able," but he caught himself and really thought about Sherlock's question. _I can deny him nothing. I would do anything he asked. Anything he wanted at all. I'd follow him to the ends of the earth — or the kama sutra. Crikey._

He met Sherlock's gaze and nodded. "Yes, I agree."

"Considering that, and the fact that you, John Watson, are all I've ever wanted, I don't see what the problem is. I waited over twenty years to find you and I have no intention of giving you up or becoming tired of you. Now please stop saying such stupid things." At this point, Sherlock's expression had shifted from shocked confusion to genuine distress. His lip trembled.

John exhaled a breath through his nose and gently pulled Sherlock into his arms, holding him tenderly. The other man curled around him like a vine and snuffled softly, burying his face in the crook of John's neck.

John kissed Sherlock's temple and then rested his cheek in the nest of soft, dark curls. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"You just can't _say_ things like that," Sherlock's voice was slightly muffled and his tone was childlike. Petulant and frightened. _That's not fair, you have to follow the rules. You're cheating. Stop that. I'll tell._

"I know. I won't do it again."

"You're mine, John. Don't you know that?"

"I know, Sherlock."

"And I'm yours." Sherlock's voice grew quieter. "I never thought I'd belong to anyone. I never wanted to belong to anyone. It seemed like an impossible obligation and a waste of time, and also the fact that I have a brother who is hellbent on _attempting_ to control my movements. Yet I seem to belong to you now and I've discovered that I like it very much. So you must keep me. I demand it."

John petted his lover soothingly, murmuring, "I want that very much. I want to keep you."

"Good. Now I think you should kiss me and think of a suitable way to apologize for being an idiot."

John chuckled softly and tipped up Sherlock's chin to kiss his lips tenderly. "I'll get right on that."

**A/N: More to come soon :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews! I'm glad you are enjoying it! It's been really fun to write. One more chapter to go after this. Well, maybe two. Haven't decided yet, heh.**

**There will be more smut in the next chapter, I promise ;-)**

There was also the matter of Scotland Yard. John was keen to keep news of his and Sherlock's more, um, complicated entanglement away from their colleagues.

Sherlock, as usual, was oblivious to John's concerns. It didn't occur to him to be, since he'd never been involved with anyone before. "Why would they be interested in what we do in the bedroom, anyway, John? It has nothing to do with the Work." He paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard in the middle of a blog post. "Well, I suppose the Work was the tipping point for this, but you know what I mean."

John made a _hmmm_ noise and exhaled through his nose. "Right. Okay, um, Sherlock do you remember my blog entry for A Study in Pink? Where I said you were ignorant about some things?"

"_Spectacularly_ ignorant was the specific wording, if I recall," Sherlock groused, tapping a bit harder at his keyboard.

"Well, you're doing it again."

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock stiffened and stared daggers at John.

John sighed. "What I mean is, just because it's no one's business, doesn't mean they won't make it their business. They're all so gossipy — for some reason I thought maybe they'd be the exception to every other workplace in the world, but apparently I was wrong. We're already under scrutiny every time we go to a crime scene — let's not add fuel to the fire, yeah? Just keep a low profile and let them keep murmuring about Lestrade's cheating wife and Sally and Anderson's fling, or whatever it is they're doing."

Sherlock shuddered. "What did I say about uttering that name in this flat?"

"Sorry."

"I don't know what you think is going to happen, John. Once we have a case on our hands, my thoughts will be entirely devoted to the matter at hand."

John tapped his fingers again his knee. "Right. Well, we'll see about that, won't we?"

* * *

><p>John supposed maybe he was still getting used to the idea of "being" with Sherlock. All he knew is that he wasn't ready for all of the "Ah, I knew it all along" and "I called it!" jokes he'd have to take. It was none of anyone's bloody business until he and Sherlock decided it should be.<p>

Sherlock behaved as he always did when a juicy crime scene was waved under his nose — he blew out the door with John in tow, spouting potential theories as they raced there in a cab. It was all business when they alighted from the car and were let past the police tape. Lestrade strode up and began a more detailed debriefing of the scene.

_This is all right_, John thought. _Perfectly normal. If you can call picking through a fresh crime scene normal, then yeah, this is normal. This is good_.

But then they came to Sally Donovan. Smug, nasty Sally, whom John had wanted to slap more than a few times just to get her to shut her gob where Sherlock was concerned.

"Make it snappy, _freak_," she sniped as they approached. "Try not to step in anything, yeah?"

Normally Sherlock shrugged her comments off, or seemed to, but John had been learning that not all of it rolled easily off his friend's shoulders. Some of it sank in, forming a barrier that separated him from others. A barrier that John realized he was unconsciously trying to dismantle. To bring Sherlock a bit closer to the rest of the world.

Sometimes the sleuth came back at Sally with a witty retort. He loved having the last word and usually was able to craft the perfect tear-down to achieve that end.

But this time, it was different. And the most extraordinary thing was that he didn't say anything terribly different from what he usually said. It was the way he said it. The way he looked.

Sherlock paused and turned to devote his entire attention to Sally. John hovered off to the side and when Sherlock locked his eyes with Sally's, even John could feel it spark through his body. It was the look. An entirely new look that Sherlock had adopted. John had first seen it when one night Sherlock had passed him in the hall, and, unable to find the immediate words to tell John what he wanted, he just looked at him, his eyes sharp and intense and hungry, and John had Sherlock pinned against the wall a moment later, kissing him fiercely. It had set John on fire and soon he found himself grabbing the lapels of Sherlock's dressing gown with one hand, pulling the younger man down to his knees, his other hand fumbling open his trousers. And Sherlock had gone down so easily, so willingly. His long, strong fingers gripping John's hips and he'd opened his mouth and …

John shook his head, clearing the memory away before someone started accusing _him_ of getting off on a crime scene. _Focus, John._ Sherlock, naturally, had caught it all and he turned from Sally for a fraction of a moment to meet John's eyes and his mouth quirked up ever so slightly.

Prior to all this, John had seen Sherlock turn it on. Adopt a falsely seductive persona to get information or access to something he wanted. Oblivious as he might be in some respects, he wasn't blind to the fact that he was considered a good-looking bloke and would use it to his advantage when necessary. It was effective and alluring, but not entirely authentic because Sherlock didn't have the experience to draw on in order to make it any more than a thin mask. The ruse didn't travel all the way up into his eyes. But that had all changed now. In the look, John saw every night he'd spent with his lover, the two of them exploring and working each other up into a frenzy until they collapsed with exhaustion. Basically, the man whom people had joked about being a machine had figured out how to ooze sex.

_Knowledge is power_, thought John, as Sherlock loomed over Sally. _He's got the knowledge now and here comes the power …_

Sherlock's eyes were hooded, his lip curled so slightly, and his voice dropped both in volume and timbre. He didn't touch Sally, but merely leaned in and murmured, "Oh, Sally, _do_ try to be more creative in your taunts? We could have so much more fun if you would just make an _effort_." He then gave a little wink and swept off into the house in a flurry of coat and scarf.

John looked at Sally, who was blushing furiously and absolutely speechless. John could swear her breath had quickened. "Problem?" he asked mildly.

"Oh … shut up!" she finally spat out and stormed away in the opposite direction.

John caught up with Sherlock inside the house. "As if you weren't dangerous enough before," he murmured quietly to the detective. "You are positively _lethal_ now."

Sherlock fixed John with a look that could only be described as devilish. "Problem?" he asked, adopting the same tone John had taken with Sally. He'd overheard. Of course he had.

"None whatsoever," John said, with a small, breathless laugh. He even let his hand graze gently over Sherlock's back before they turned their whole focus to the Work.


	5. Chapter 5

Ever efficient, Sherlock had found a way to make sex benefit the Work. And it was all John's fault. One night, not too long ago, he'd sat in "his" chair at Baker Street, watching Sherlock pace a groove into the floor. He was stumped over a case and growing increasingly frustrated and angry.

"It makes no sense, John! All of the clues — every shred of evidence — points to Mr. Falstaff's brother. He had to have done it."

"But he didn't," replied John. "He's dead. Has been for fifteen years."

"I know. I know, I know, I know, I know!" Sherlock fairly spat, looking at John disdainfully before turning on his heel to continue pacing. "Someone has gone to great lengths to set up a trail leading to a dead man, but who?" He buried his hands in his hair and let out a yelping growl. "What is the ANSWER? Come on, _think!_"

"Maybe that's the problem."

Sherlock's hands dropped and he looked haughtily at his flatmate. "What do you mean?"

"You're thinking too much. Maybe you should stop for a little while."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "_Stop_ thinking? Are you planning to also ask me to stop global warming and book intelligent, well-spoken guests on Jeremy Kyle? Because those tasks are as equally possible as my ability to stop thinking."

John stood up. "Oh, I disagree. I think there's a way. I think your computer just needs a reboot."

(Oh, how he would come to regret coining this phrase.)

"Reboot? What are you suggesting … oh …"

John had moved forward and roughly grabbed Sherlock's hips, pulling him close. Possessively.

"John, as always, I am flattered by your interest, but we are in the middle of an important case right now and it hardly seems the time to … John!"

John had opened Sherlock's trousers and roughly tugged them down, along with his pants, to expose his backside. Sherlock protested, moving to pull them up again, "John, really, this is ridicu —"

His words were interrupted by a yelp as John administered a smart slap to Sherlock's bottom.

"John! What on earth are you —"

"You stopped thinking for a moment there, didn't you?"

Sherlock paused. " … yes." An expression of understanding began to spread over his patrician features.

John had spanked Sherlock again, then claimed his mouth in a bruising kiss, grinding his lower body up against the detective. Sherlock moaned, melting against John, and that's how they had "reboot sex" for the first time.

It had been incredibly passionate and urgent, with John taking Sherlock on all fours on the floor in the middle of the sitting room, leaving only briefly to fetch some lube from the bathroom (pursued by Sherlock's petulant whine, "Hurry up, John! I'm _thinking!_"). They stayed clothed except for their trousers and pants down around their knees.

John had fucked Sherlock hard. Harder than he'd ever fucked anyone in his life. He fucked Sherlock in the way he realized he'd always wanted to, but had never been brave enough to ask his respective partners if they enjoyed being dominated. Rough sex. Being slapped and bitten. Talking filth. All behaviour seemingly out of character for the gentle doctor, but everyone has secret urges simmering below the surface. A inner yin to the outer yang.

Sherlock responded very positively. He bucked like a wild animal, snarling and urging John on with panting moans of pleasure, clawing desperately at the sitting room carpet. He grunted happily every time John spanked his bottom, doing it still as he thrust hard and deep, forcing his cock inside Sherlock as he slapped him, the detective's pale skin turning crimson. He ordered Sherlock to take his cock. To take all of it and Sherlock had moaned his assent. And when John had reached forward and grabbed a handful of Sherlock's dark curls, pulling his head back, as John's thighs slapped mercilessly against Sherlock's tender arse, Sherlock had let out a keening cry of ecstasy and John knew he'd done it — rendered the great genius detective incapable of coherent thought and reduced to a whimpering pile of need. It was bloody fantastic.

He'd eventually reached around and stroked Sherlock's hard cock and it only took a few minutes before Sherlock shook apart and was coming so hard it felt like John's cock would be squeezed into uselessness. It felt incredible, but also a little frightening — the combination of the two sensations triggering his own noisy climax.

They'd both collapsed onto the floor, panting hard. John barely had a chance to pull out and collect his thoughts before Sherlock stopped breathing altogether.

"Sherlock?" John felt a twinge of panic. He shook Sherlock gently. "Sherlock are you —"

A long-fingered hand, sweaty, and covered in carpet lint, reached back and pushed into John's face in an attempt to silence the doctor. "Euggh, Sherlock! Stop it, ugh …" John recoiled, trying to evade the persistent hand.

"Shhhh! Shut up, John, I'm on the verge of … YES! Yes, of course! God, it's so bloody _obvious!_"

And with that, Sherlock hauled himself off the floor and stumbled to the desk, picking up his phone and sending a series of frantic texts, his trousers and pants still tangled around his knees, John's semen dripping down his slender thighs. It was an unexpectedly erotic sight.

John pulled himself up to a sitting position and watched, askance. "So, if not the brother, then …"

"The housekeeper," replied Sherlock with grim satisfaction. "The one who pulls all the strings and keeps the trains running on time. I believe all the necessary evidence will be found in her room. Under the floorboards — she is clever, but not terribly creative. I saw it in the torn pocket on her cardigan and the scuff marks at the base of the bedpost. I noted it, but temporarily misfiled the information."

"Probably time to do some dusting in the mind palace," John quipped.

Sherlock studiously ignored the comment. "I have also made another discovery."

"Oh, what's that?" John had recovered enough strength to tuck himself into his trousers and zip up before standing.

"The 'reboot' you suggested was incredibly effective. It will be a remarkable new tool we can employ in our work."

"Oh _god_."

"Chin up, John. I'm sure you'll find a way to pull through." Sherlock's voice was equal parts amused and sarcastic.

And now, when the great detective was stumped, he would call out, "John! Time to reboot! Step lively, man. _Lives_ are at stake!"

John did his best to keep up. It wasn't difficult because after all, it was Sherlock and Sherlock liked, no, needed, "reboot sex" to be hard and rough. He needed a firm hand and harsh handling to turn off his brain and allow information to be processed differently. He took all John had to give and more. John had never been with anyone with whom he could completely let go of every inhibition. Sherlock was with him every step of the way. John was coming to crave him in a way that was frightening and thrilling.

And, without fail, with every "reboot," the answer that eluded the detective came to the fore mere minutes after Sherlock climaxed. The last time he had crowed in delight and leapt out of John's bed like a gazelle, bounding downstairs, completely naked save for some bite marks and fingerprint-sized bruises on his hips.

John had sat up in bed, still trembling with the aftershocks of the encounter, shaking his head in amazement yet again, when he heard feet creaking up the stairs and the soft coo that Mrs. Hudson made to announce her presence — _oh god._

"Woohoo, boys? Just thought I'd see if you needed —"

"Mrs. Hudson! _Don't come in!_" John yelled, attempting to leap out of the bed the way Sherlock did, but only managing to fall heavily to the floor. "Mrs. Hudson!"

Too late.

A shocked scream, followed by a high-pitched exclamation: "_Sherlock!_ What in heaven's name …"

Sherlock's reply was downright chipper. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson! I have just made the most remarkable discovery!"

Mrs. Hudson's voice was shaky. "I'll leave you to it, then."

"Leaving so soon? Shame, that. Well, cheerio!"

The door slammed and John heard hurried footsteps carrying Mrs. Hudson away. He sighed and slipped on his robe before going downstairs. Sherlock was still standing in the middle of the room, naked as a jaybird, texting at a rapid-fire pace. John picked up Sherlock's blue dressing gown and draped it over his lover's pale shoulders. "Honestly, Sherlock, did you have to traumatize Mrs. Hudson like that? She is our landlady, remember."

"Hardly my fault that she barged in without warning," Sherlock murmured. "It's just a human body, nothing shocking."

"Shockingly beautiful, though," said John softly, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's shoulder, his arms wrapping around Sherlock's waist and holding the man against him.

"No need to get all mushy, John. I need to finish reporting my findings to Lestrade." But John heard a small smile in Sherlock's voice and the detective leaned back against John just a little, one hand dropping down to cover John's hand on his waist. He continued to text with one hand. "Put the kettle on? I fancy a brew, how about you?"

John nodded and squeezed Sherlock gently before moving into the kitchen. Sherlock continued texting, while his free hand reverently touched the bite marks on his neck.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Again, I'm so thrilled by the lovely reviews. Thanks again for reading!**

**This chapter is dedicated to dohimdraco, who commented that they were looking forward to Mycroft's reaction and I realized I hadn't even planned to write a chapter about Mycroft's reaction. Which was totally silly because Mycroft is awesome. And I just learned that he's *really* fun to write. So thanks for putting the idea in my head!**

The sleek, black car was waiting at the curb when John came out of the surgery. He stopped dead in his tracks and sighed. "Oh, for fuck's sake …"

His phone pinged. Again. Sherlock had been texting him all afternoon. He was bored. And horny. A very dangerous combination.

_Hard_

_SH_

_Harder_

_SH_

_Bloody hard_

_SH_

_I loathe your job. Come home._

_SH_

And the latest:

_You should be halfway home by now if you are using the shortcut I devised for you._

_SH_

He approached the car and the door swung open to reveal the lovely Anthea, who looked up at him with a look of cool expectation.

"Anthea, really?" John sighed. "This is really not a good time and —" he stopped speaking when Anthea smiled with amusement.

"There's never any choice, is there?"

Anthea shook her head minutely. "Nope. Get in."

John obeyed. His phone pinged again. He swore it sounded angrier.

* * *

><p>John was driven to Mycroft's home and shown inside, where the doctor was treated to the sight of Mycroft Holmes seated regally in a leather armchair, sipping a cup of tea, the saucer cradled in one well-manicured hand.<p>

"Ah, John. So glad you could come." Mycroft's eyes danced with amusement at his little joke. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Do have a seat, John. We have a few things to discuss." Mycroft indicated the chair across from him. "Tea?"

John sat down, the leather creaking under his weight. "Please."

Mycroft poured the tea, added the perfect amount of milk and stirred the liquid delicately before handing the saucer and cup to John. John's mouth quirked slightly at the corner. Only Mycroft could find a way to exert power through the serving of tea. He knew exactly how John took his tea and fixed it up without asking to prove that he could find out anything about John that he desired to know.

"Thank you." John lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip. It was the perfect temperature and the perfect flavour. Of course.

Mycroft set his own cup down and crossed his legs, resting the ankle of one well-shod foot across the opposite knee. He leaned back into his chair and steepled his fingers in the same manner as his younger brother.

"So, it would appear that you have taken my brother's virginity."

John nearly spat out his tea, but managed to swallow with difficulty and he coughed faintly. "Blimey, you're not mincing words today, and excuse me, but what makes you think I am going to discuss this extremely personal matter with you?"

Mycroft made a small, huffy sound of impatience. "Oh, John, isn't this getting tiresome for you? It certainly is for me. This little dance we do. I ask questions and you act offended and outraged. But in the end we always talk about what needs to be talked about. And we _are_ going to talk about this."

John's jaw tightened in anger. Mycroft was so bloody infuriating, but he knew that resisting him was futile. _Best get this over with._

His phone pinged again in his pocket. Sherlock was probably in stage 4 of a complete meltdown. He was going to have to do a lot of cleaning up when he got home. "First of all, let's adjust our language, shall we?" said John. "We both know perfectly well that it is impossible to take anything from Sherlock that he is not willing to give."

Mycroft cocked his head and fixed John with a look of gentle amusement.

John rolled his eyes this time. "All right, fine, impossible for _everyone else_. I didn't _take_ anything from him. He offered himself to me and I accepted. Happily so."

"Oh yes, I am sure he propositioned you," replied Mycroft, nodding. "In a charmingly clumsy and ham-handed manner. Entirely purposeful, too, I hope you know. Obviously the most effective way to procure the desired response from you."

John frowned. He hated it when Mycroft spoke this way. As if John were nothing more than a pawn in some twisted game between Mycroft and his brother. Making John doubt any moment he had with Sherlock that had seemed genuine. He recalled the image of Sherlock's trembling hands as he had confessed his desire for John. _Was it all an act? An affectation to ensure my compliance? Does it even matter now?_

"I suppose it's a stupid idea to even ask how you know about this."

Mycroft nodded, his eyes expressing pity. "Of course. The 'how' is not necessary, though it's not as though you are being terribly discreet about it."

"We're being as discreet as we want to be."

"I'm told you are able to make my brother howl like a deranged beast. So, at least I can rest assured that he is enjoying himself and has finally found an effective and legal outlet for his id."

John blushed scarlet. "Jesus, Mycroft."

"Oh, don't be such a prude," Mycroft scolded. "From what I understand, you don't appear to be that way in your home with Sherlock. We should be able to discuss sexuality without blushing like little schoolgirls. It is part of the human condition."

"What exactly is it that you want to discuss?" said John, frustrated. "We're having a sexual relationship, yes, ooh, you caught us, too bad. What of it?"

Mycroft's gaze hardened and he leaned forward, planting both feet on the ground and clasping his hands. "You are right, John. No one can take anything away from Sherlock that he doesn't want to give up except for me. And the only times I have ever taken anything away from him were when he was at risk of harming himself. Whether it was taking his small hands away from the stove as a child, or the syringe out of his arm when he went and got himself a cocaine problem." Mycroft held John's gaze with an iron grip. "What I want to know is if you are going to become a problem later on. A messy problem that I will have to fix for my dear brother."

"I don't understand."

"Oh, you do, John. I know you do. But perhaps I am being a bit too harsh. Let's try it from another approach. Mycroft's posture relaxed and he leaned back again, smiling softly at John. A dangerous smile. All of Mycroft's smiles were dangerous.

"Let's play a little game. Let's pretend we've gone, oh, say, one hundred years back in time. You are a new beau, a suitor, wanting to court my darling baby brother. And for the sake of the narrative, we'll look past the fact that same-sex entanglements fell outside of these social contracts at the time," Mycroft rested one elegant hand against his chest. "And I, as the eldest son, am the acting 'man of the house,' since our father's unfortunate passing. I have asked you here today to declare your intentions. This is how things were once done, and for the life of me I don't know why it isn't still done this way. It would prevent a great number of poorly made decisions."

"My intentions?" John repeated.

Mycroft scowled. "Oh, don't play stupid. Sherlock has told me of this irritating habit you have of repeating things people say when you are either buying time or being deliberately obtuse. Because you have to understand that my brother is not like other people."

"That's the understatement of the century," muttered John, sipping his tea.

"He may have propositioned you, but I would hope that you were aware of what you were taking on by becoming involved with him. The responsibility you have accepted by initiating him into the world of physical experience."

John paused for a long moment. _Ah, now we're getting to the crux of the matter_. "Yes, Mycroft. Believe me, I have considered that at length. I don't take this lightly. I have no intention of hurting Sherlock."

Mycroft gave John a pitying look. "Oh, but of course. No one really _intends_ to hurt anyone else, do they?" And then the elder Holmes's voice turned harsh, his gaze steely. "But they do. They do every single day. And I need your assurance that you are in this for the long haul. If you are planning on merely experimenting with my brother; having a lark, taking your pleasure from removing the virginal veil; introducing him to the sensual pleasures of the flesh; gratifying your ego by being the first to make him lose control of himself; only to leave him so you can marry a nice girl and move to the suburbs to make babies — I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

"I don't want to do that!"

"Are you certain?" Mycroft's eyes were blazing. "Think about this, John. Think hard. This is not a light question I am posing. I am asking you to assure me that you will stay on the path you have selected. Because Sherlock has chosen you. You are the first and you are the only one. He won't have anyone else but you. He is emotionally underdeveloped and this makes him your responsibility." Mycroft paused for a breath and then relaxed minutely. "But it's not too late yet. I believe I've caught it in the nick of time. This can be reversed, though not without some minor collateral damage to my dear brother's psyche. But if you plan to leave him at some point, then I must insist you do it right now. I will make provisions to make the separation as easy as possible. A new job, a new place to live, a new city. Likely a new country. The separation must be absolute, complete, and irreversible."

At some point during Mycroft's diatribe, John's jaw had dropped. He was suddenly aware of his gaping yawp and shut it. But he could barely believe what he was hearing.

"Are you seriously trying to bribe me to walk away from Sherlock?"

Mycroft looked insulted. "Of course not. I am not trying to do anything, John. If I wanted you removed immediately, I would have bypassed this conversation and had you taken halfway across the world by now. As I said, I only wish to take those things from Sherlock that will harm him. I am asking you if you will be one of those things. Will you burn him like the stove? Poison him like the cocaine?"

"Absolutely not."

"Think, John. Really think before you answer."

John nodded and took a breath, delving into the question. _He's right, this isn't a light request. Are you ready to give up the fantasy of having a wife and a little family someday? Is that something you wanted because you wanted it or because it's what people are supposed to want? Is this loss of this vision more or less painful than the idea of losing Sherlock? Do I want to be having these interrogations with bleeding Mycroft Holmes for the rest of my life? Could I really abandon Sherlock?_

John's breath grew shuddery as he tried to imagine that scenario. _Never seeing him again. Never hearing his marvellous voice, bearing witness to his brilliance, kissing his mouth and mastering his body. Holding him. Laughing with him. Being driven crazy by him. Going on adventures with him. Learning from him. Feeling utterly alive when I am with him. Having him think I wanted to leave him. Thinking that he wasn't good enough. Unworthy. Damaged. Disposable._

And finally, an even more troubling thought.

_There's a good chance Sherlock will become obsessed with either finding me or figuring out why I left. He won't rest. It will consume him. And Mycroft knows that. "Minor collateral damage," my arse._

He took a shaky breath and looked at Mycroft, knowing that his decision would be read plainly on his face by the ever-observant Holmes.

Mycroft met his gaze, smiled, and nodded. "Good. I was hoping you would make the correct choice."

"There really is no choice. I think we both know that. But you can rest assured it's the decision I would have made no matter what. I am with Sherlock because there is no other place I would rather be."

"I needed to be sure you'd made the realization yourself and weren't planning to go off and doing something regrettable and stupid," Mycroft commented lightly. "Yes, you will stay with Sherlock. You will lead a highly unconventional life, but it will be an extraordinary one. This is what you need and this is what my brother can give you. You are already aware of the benefits you bring to him."

John nodded.

"One more question, John."

"Yes?"

"Do you love him?"

John blinked and paused for a moment. "Don't ask me that."

"Why?"

"I am certainly not going to say it aloud to you before I have said it aloud to him. Is that enough of an answer for you?"

Mycroft smiled and nodded. "Yes, John. That will do."

The moment was interrupted as their phones pinged almost simultaneously. They both reached for their devices. John looked at the screen.

_Leave at once._

_SH_

Mycroft looked at his phone and flinched almost imperceptibly. He raised his eyebrows, let out a sigh, and looked at John. "I have been informed — in no uncertain terms — that I am to release you immediately."

John smirked. "That isn't precisely what he said, is it?"

Mycroft gave him a smile that was almost friendly. Every now and then they shared a brief moment of commiseration over what it was like to have a man like Sherlock in their respective lives. "No, it was not. But the language my brother employed is definitely not worth repeating aloud." Mycroft stood and John followed suit. "Be good to him, John." He offered his hand to shake.

John gripped it, squeezing a bit harder than politeness would dictate. Mycroft didn't react except to smile more, gracefully absorbing the pressure and taking his hand back when John released it.

"See you soon," Mycroft said as John headed for the door held open by Mycroft's bodyguard.

"Not too soon, I hope," John called over his shoulder.

They both participated in the fallacy that Mycroft had released John at Sherlock's request and not simply because Mycroft himself chose to do so.

* * *

><p>"What did he offer you?" Sherlock's voice and face were thunderous when John was dropped off at Baker Street. He had started yelling while John was still climbing the stairs. "Tell me what he offered you! Money? Political influence? A small island off the coast of Spain? Tell me!"<p>

"Sherlock, calm down."

"I will NOT!" he shouted. Sherlock paced the flat like a caged animal, whipping an arm out and knocking over a pile of papers, sending them flying through the air like oversized snowflakes.

"He offered me a new life. New job, new flat, new country. Anything I wanted if I would leave Baker Street and never come back."

Sherlock stopped moving and his head turned slowly to look at John. "An escape hatch. Of course. Did you accept? No, of course you didn't — he would have taken you away immediately if that were the case. You'd have to start your jumper collection again from scratch."

John threw his arms up in the air. "Oh, and not because the idea is totally and completely insane?"

Sherlock sat in his chair, but his body was as taut as one of the strings on his violin. "It's not insane, John. A different kind of man would have seen this as an opportunity to have all he ever wanted in life. All provided for him at one small cost."

"Sherlock!" John stormed over and dropped to his knees in front of the chair, grabbing Sherlock by the upper arms and almost shaking him. "Shut up. Just shut. Up. You already know what kind of man I am. You knew in the first seconds you laid eyes on me. So stop saying these daft things. This is what I want in life. What you and I have right now. And losing you would be the hugest cost of all. That's why I turned your brother down."

"Why?"

John's brow furrowed. "I just told you why I turned him —"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, "why do you want me?"

"You know why."

Sherlock was passive in John's grip, neither fighting him off nor giving in to him. He sighed, eyes closing for a moment as if in great pain. "John, I never ask a question to which I already know the answer. It's why I ask so few of them."

It was John's turn to sigh. "For god's sake, you git, it's because I love you."

Sherlock's eyes opened again and he stared at John for long moment before asking, "What does that mean?"

John was thunderstruck. "_Mean?_ What do you mean 'what does that mean'? It means I'm in love with you!"

Sherlock swallowed hard and this time he relented in John's grip, caving in somewhat. He leaned forward until his forehead was touching John's and he spoke quietly and with difficulty. "John. I don't know what that means. To love someone. To be in love. I have no experience with it. I need you to explain it to me." He paused and then added, in almost a whisper. "_Please_."

John felt like deflating himself. It was almost painful to hear Sherlock ask what was probably the most difficult question he'd ever had to utter aloud in his entire life.

"Oh, Sherlock," he murmured, releasing the other man's arms and lifting his hands up to gently cradle Sherlock's face between them. "It seems like people have been trying to define love since the beginning of time. All I can tell you is what it means to me. For me, love is acceptance. I want you around whether you are being completely brilliant or a stroppy mare. Love is passion. I've been besotted with the way you see the world from the day I met you. You challenge me and you brought me alive when I was dead inside. I want to spend my days experiencing the world with you. You give me what I need. That and the fact that you are bloody gorgeous and you have a big cock, a tight arse, and apparently no gag reflex. I want you _constantly_."

Sherlock chuckled very faintly at this.

"And finally, love is sacrifice. I would do anything for you. Anything at all that you needed. I put your safety and well-being before my own. I've killed for you once and I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

Sherlock's hands came up to hold John's forearms very gently. "That sounds like a very acceptable definition, John. Makes one wonder why all of humanity has struggled with it for so long. Based on those terms, I would have to say that I love you, too."

John smiled, laughing very softly. It was such a very Sherlockian way of proclaiming devotion.

Sherlock tugged on John's arms, urging him up until he was straddling Sherlock's lap, allowing Sherlock to wrap his long arms around John's body and rest his head against the doctor's chest. John smiled again, slipping his arms around his lover, and petting his hair soothingly, letting his fingers trace the shape of a jutting cheekbone.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"I'm feeling vaguely nauseous. And inexplicably anxious. Is this part of being in love, as well?"

"God, yes. That's the 'Oh, fuck, what am I getting myself into?' part."

"So this is normal."

"Completely."

"Right … John?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"How does one make that part stop? I don't care for it at all."

"Well, this usually helps …" John tipped up Sherlock's chin and gave him a long, slow kiss.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and he sighed softly. "Yes," he murmured when the kiss broke. "I think you're right."

"Come to bed, Sherlock."

"Yes. Yes, John, I will."

* * *

><p>John took Sherlock to his bed and made love to him. No reboot needed this time. He undressed the detective reverently, and they kissed and touched until they were both aching with need, then John lifted Sherlock's legs and pressed into him so slowly, and they kissed deeply as John rocked his hips, letting Sherlock feel the slow, sweet slide of his cock moving inside him.<p>

John loved the urgent, frantic sex they had while working on cases, but he loved this, too. He could practically feel Sherlock's pulse from inside, their bodies so deeply connected that it felt like Sherlock was everywhere, even in his mind. John stroked Sherlock's curls and claimed his mouth again, moving a little faster, moaning softly in pleasure. He reached down and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's erection, feeling his lover shudder in response as Sherlock arched up against him, his hips rolling smoothly to meet each thrust.

"Are you going to come for me?" John murmured sweetly in Sherlock's ear, stroking the other man's cock, already slick with precome.

"Yes," Sherlock moaned. "I'm close, John — ahhh!

John had chosen that moment to drive inside, hitting Sherlock deep, causing the other man to tremble beneath him, wrapping his legs more tightly around John's waist. They moved urgently together, gasping and moaning, until Sherlock let out a groaning cry and came. John forced himself to stay in control so he could watch. The sight of Sherlock coming apart never ceased to amaze him. It didn't gratify his ego — it just made him feel extremely lucky.

"John …" Sherlock whimpered, his hands sliding down John's bare back to cup and squeeze his arse, pulling him in deeper. John shuddered and buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck as he came, groaning deeply. Sherlock made a rumbling sound of satisfaction in his chest and wrapped his arms around the doctor, holding him close. For once he had no need to immediately leap out of bed and get to his phone.

"Blimey," John murmured faintly.

Sherlock chuckled.

John smirked and kissed Sherlock just below his ear before carefully pulling out and rolling onto his back, still breathing hard. Sherlock stretched languidly and slipped one arm under his neck, the other over his belly, not really caring that it was sticky and smeared with ejaculate.

"You didn't answer my question, you know," he murmured quietly.

John turned his head to look at his lover. "Hmmm? What's that?"

"When I asked you why you wanted me."

"I did too answer that."

"No, you just said that you were in love with me. Which just begs the question of why are you in love with me?"

"Are you fishing for compliments here, mate?"

Sherlock snorted. "Please. I can do without such cheap sentiment."

"Bollocks." John chuckled. "You eat it up every time. But why are you asking me this?"

"Well, I'm told — by most people — that I'm something of a nightmare. And I know I am. I am difficult, John. I've never been in a relationship before and there are obvious reasons why. It's entirely possible that I will be totally pants at this entire endeavour. And if you are harbouring any illusions of 'changing me,' I suggest you put those aside right now."

"Sherlock, in the entire time I've known you — even before all the shagging — have I ever tried to change you?"

A minute shrug. "You do try to get me to buy milk and put my dishes in the sink."

"Which has been an abysmal failure."

"Because you always do it if I just wait long enough."

"Yet I'm still here."

"You are either a masochist, a terribly patient man, or perhaps you are deranged."

"A bit of all of the above, I reckon."

"You think?"

"Definitely somewhat deranged." John looked over at Sherlock and smiled, reaching over to hold his hand. "Maybe you're a nightmare, but it's been a dream come true as far as I'm concerned."

Sherlock smiled, then laughed softly. "That was horrible, John. Atrocious."

John gave Sherlock his best impression of a blinding movie-star smile. "BAFTA material?"

"Hmmm, hardly. You better keep working on it."

"You're an idiot. And I love you."

"And I love you, John. But that was still atrocious."

"I wonder if Mycroft would move me to Maldives? Surely they need doctors there. All those rich old men having heart attacks and such."

"What did I tell you about uttering that name in this bed?"

"Not good?"

"Bit not good." But Sherlock squeezed John's hand and smiled anyway.


	7. Epilogue

__**A/N: Because Sherlock always gets the last word ...**

_Sherlock_

John drifted off to sleep, but Sherlock wasn't tired yet. The sex had been the slower, less exhausting kind, and he was still keyed up from both his climax and his temper tantrum earlier.

He could kill Mycroft.

When John was late coming home from work and stopped responding to his texts, it had been simple to deduce where he had gone. Now that Sherlock was calmer, he knew deep down that the idea of John selling him out for one of Mycroft's "benefits packages" was highly out of character for the principled doctor, but still, it wasn't impossible. Mycroft had "removed" other people from Sherlock's life whom he found objectionable. The fact that Mycroft had been able to purchase their obedience was a sign that they were unworthy company for Sherlock in the first place, but in his younger days he'd been quite an unworthy person, particularly when he'd decided the his life should be devoted to the pursuit of and abuse of narcotics.

He yawned quietly and rolled to his side, looking at John while he slept. _Hmmm_. This was new. Normally he couldn't bear to just lie in bed idly if he wasn't sleeping. But tonight it was all right. He even dared to reach out and toy with a lock of sandy blond hair. He wondered exactly what John had said to Mycroft. Obviously the correct assurances had been made because he was here. If Mycroft hadn't wanted John to be here, he would be most definitely someplace else. Somewhere far away. And Sherlock would find his own passport mysteriously missing from the flat. He'd have to jump through innumerable hoops before beginning his pursuit. Such was the way his brother operated.

Mycroft might always have the upper hand, but it didn't mean that Sherlock had to make it easy for him. Besides, his brother needed someone to push back. He would get mentally soft around the middle if he didn't. Sherlock smirked to himself. _Already physically soft around the middle, the squidgy tosser._

He sighed and stretched gently, moving onto his back again, not wanting to disturb John, who was now snoring quite musically. He rolled the words around in his mind like a hard candy, trying to feel out any potential sharp edges, savouring the sweetness. _I'm in love with you_.

_In love with you._

_Love._

Curious. He still didn't understand what was happening. It was all very strange to him. Sherlock had scoffed at the notion of love for as long as he could remember. It wasn't something he seemed suited for at all. Living in a world where his behaviour and personality were met with mistrust, disdain, annoyance, and rejection, Sherlock had thought of civility as being the highest standard he could hope for. But love? Did he have something in him worth loving?

He frowned, looking harder at John as if the answer was written on his flesh. _I keep asking why, John, and your answers aren't answers at all._

So perhaps the anxiety wasn't inexplicable after all. Sherlock was making the uncomfortable realization that he had entered a situation that went beyond deduction as he knew it. The things he needed to know couldn't be read in loose threads on a jacket or even in the expression on a person's face. It went deeper than that. To a realm of human behaviour that was beyond his ken. Before John, Sherlock had only comprehended the notions of sex and love as far as they affected and motivated behaviour and decision-making. Engaging in sexual behaviour had served to strengthen his knowledge of these motivations. Not to mention the fact that it was extraordinarily enjoyable with John. He was coming to crave the contact in a way that reminded him vaguely of another addiction that once ruled him. He acknowledged that if someone were to attempt to claim John's sexual attentions as their own, Sherlock would most certainly go to extreme lengths to prevent that from happening.

_What lengths? How far would I go? Would I scheme? Most definitely. Would I kill? I would definitely consider it. Just the thought of someone else with him — red hot rage. Blinding. Would want to tear their throat out with my teeth. Why? Why would I go that far? There are other people to have sex with. It's something more than that. Is this the nasty business people always complain about where sex and love become inexorably intertwined?_

John's snore crescendoed into a sputtering snort and Sherlock glared at him. "Shhh!" he hissed. "I'm thinking, John."

John grumbled nonsensically and rolled over onto his side. The snore resumed its normal pattern and Sherlock nodded, satisfied, resting his chin on his fingertips.

The criteria that John had set out to define the nature of love made sense to Sherlock. He felt all the same things. He wanted John around always, even when he was being slow and stupid and looking at Sherlock like he was speaking a foreign language. He'd never felt that way before. Usually he couldn't get away from people quickly enough when they tested his patience in that manner. Passion, well, yes. It was Sherlock's passion for John that had begun this whole debacle in the first place. Finally, sacrifice. Even thinking the word made Sherlock's pulse quicken. He would die for John. He'd been prepared to several times already. There was no question about it. John was essential. John must be protected at all costs.

Ugh, there was that sickly feeling in his stomach again. What was that? Sherlock concentrated harder, opening files and riffling through them, searching for the answer.

_Ah._

_Oh._

_Shit._

He had a weakness now. A soft spot, like an infant's fontanelle. A chink in the armour. Oh, that was unsettling. It was only a matter of time before it was discovered and exploited. He would have to immediately start running scenarios, determining the outcomes, and devising the most effective courses of action.

_It's all right. This is a challenge. You need those. You'll just have to work a bit harder, that's all. Less time being bored, that's good. Yes, it's good._

He turned to his side again and looked at John, who was curled up with his back to Sherlock. He looked so vulnerable and fragile, though Sherlock knew the doctor was made of much stronger stuff. But still, everyone looked helpless in their sleep. Sherlock moved in closer, until his chest was pressed up against John's back. John murmured softly and unconsciously moved back against Sherlock, seeking his warmth.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's waist and let the other man snuggle back against him. _What's this called again? Spooning, right? Yes. Quite nice, that._

He stretched his free arm across the pillow above both their heads and gently rested his cheek on the back of John's neck. John smelled good there. A natural concentration point for pheromones, of course.

"I love you, John," he murmured softly. Then he closed his eyes and began mentally constructing the first scenario. He had much work ahead of him. They would be coming for him and he had to be ready when they did.

End

**A/N: I'm wrapping it up here. This was supposed to be a bit more light-hearted, but Sherlock got all thinky and a bit angsty on me and then it all seemed to tie in with some Reichenbach foreshadowing, so there you go. I might come back to this established relationship in the future, but this arc seems to tie up nicely here. Thanks for reading!**


End file.
